


Now Look Into My Eyes (And Tell Me)

by ladyhoneydarlinglove



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Game(s), pg rated wire play, touch starved Genji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyhoneydarlinglove/pseuds/ladyhoneydarlinglove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genji needs repairs, and McCree's the only one around who can fix him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Look Into My Eyes (And Tell Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Oblivion_ by Grimes.
> 
> Hover over Japanese and Spanish for translations.

Jesse’s fondest childhood memories are the days he spent next to his brothers inside his family’s auto repair center, learning the ins and outs of every vehicle that passed through their little garage from their dad. Vehicles spoke to him in a way little else did, and Jesse often found himself bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager to gobble up every scrap of knowledge his dad provided. His father hadn’t been a particularly affectionate man, but his eyes shone with pride the first time a thirteen year old Jesse dismantled and then replaced an engine by himself, and sometimes, McCree could still feel the warmth from his dad’s hand clapping his shoulder roughly, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling in Jesse’s ears as he told him, “ _Beun trabajo, mijo_.”

Then his dad died, and their mom, of course, was nowhere to be found (she bailed sometime when Jesse was five, leaving his dad to raise four kids on his own, and as much as Jesse’s dad loved his kids, he hadn’t managed the task particularly well). Jesse and his brothers and their baby sister found themselves with no parents, no way to support themselves, and no desire to hand themselves over to the social workers who promised to take care of them. _Never trust the government_ , their father always told them, and the McCree siblings never did.

So Butch and James robbed the corner convenience store while Jesse put Cassidy on a bus to California to go live with their dad’s sister (they were delinquents, but even they thought ten was far too young to begin a life of crime, as much as Cassidy bawled and begged to go with them when Jesse reluctantly left her), and then the three hooligan brothers stole the nicest car still in their dad’s garage and hit the road, all smiles and laughter and promises of grandeur in this new life on the run. The McCree brothers, partners in crime, sticking together through thick and thin.

It wasn’t long before they got themselves mixed up with the Deadlock Gang, a trio of young, impressionable mechanics appealing to a group of outlaws constantly on the road and run. Working with the Deadlock Gang meant adding an entirely new and morally reprehensible set of skills to Jesse’s repertoire, but with the gang willing to feed and clothe them as long as the brothers earned their keep with repairs and the steady acquisition of stolen parts, Jesse found he couldn’t complain, even if he ended up doing most the work while his brothers schmoozed and weaseled their way up to higher places. It hadn’t been the life he’d imagined when they’d first set out, but it’d been a life, and he was allowed to keep enough of any spoils collected for himself that Jesse could send money to Cassidy so she might not have to end up like them. But more importantly, Jesse was free, and for a few years at least, that had been enough.

Then Butch decided to secure his position with the Deadlocks by selling Jesse out in the Blackwatch sting, and to this day Jesse’s only real consolation lies in the fact that he’d managed to send a bullet straight through Butch’s jaw after realizing what he’d done, wiping the stupid sneer off his slimy rat face before being tackled to the ground by a man far stronger and faster than any human had a right to be. He’d screamed himself hoarse as he watched Butch’s getaway car screech down the empty road, hurling obscenities and threats and promises of revenge, struggling against the inhuman grip of the man dragging him away. “Let me go!” he’d howled. “Let me go, I’m gonna blow his fucking face off, I’m gonna rip his guts out and feed him to the fucking buzzards, let me go, _let me go_ , get _him_ , he’s the bastard who organized this _whole fucking thing_ —”

“Shut up _, pendejo,_ ” the man had growled, throwing a handcuffed Jesse unceremoniously into the back of an unmarked vehicle. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about now.”

Bigger things turned out to be a choice between a life in prison or a job, an offer that when presented had left Jesse gaping like a slack-jawed yokel for several minutes until Reyes, the inhuman man, had threatened to revoke it if Jesse didn’t shut his damn mouth.

“Why?” Jesse couldn’t help but ask, wide eyed and terrified and just a little bit excited.

“Didn’t see any of your assholes-in-arms do much out there except piss themselves when they realized what was happening _,_ ” Reyes explained. “You, on the other hand, shot a man’s jaw off from fifty feet away.” His mouth twitched in the same way Jesse’s father’s had when he was trying not to smile. “That shows potential.”

(That, and Jesse would grow to suspect he reminded Reyes of someone long dead, the same way Reyes reminded Jesse of his dad, if his bulk had been made up of muscle instead of fat. But they shared the same stoic and gruff exterior, coupled with a warm disposition buried well beneath years of hardship, and Jesse would be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t treasure every sparse word of praise Reyes sent his way as much as he treasured that clap on his shoulder, so many years ago.)

Now, Jesse goes by McCree and works for Blackwatch, and they have the resources to provide real mechanics, specialists with enough expertise to make McCree’s head spin. But his knowledge of how to fix a busted engine or hot wire a car still comes in handy on occasion, and McCree makes a point of working on as many transports in the Overwatch hangers as he can so he doesn’t fall too far behind. Vehicles change and update with the times, more rapidly now than ever before, but even the strangest constructs are familiar to McCree, the smell of oil and the smooth hum of a working engine putting him at ease in a way little else does.

A cybernetic body is, objectively, nothing at all like a car, but since the specialist in charge of Genji's repairs managed to get himself shot, the burden of fixing him currently falls to the only person on their small strike team with any working knowledge of mechanics. They don’t have time to wait for HQ to send them Mercy before Blackwatch makes its next move against the Shimada Clan, and while McCree wouldn’t say he’s panicking, he can certainly name about a hundred other things he would rather be in charge of than repairing a cyborg whose company McCree enjoys far more than he tries to let on.

"Darlin', do me a favor," McCree huffs as he regards Genji’s battered body with no small amount of trepidation. "Stop throwing yourself head first into the rodeo. I know this body can take a beating, but you ain’t a goddamn tank."

A large fist shaped crater mars Genji’s chestplate. The multitude of green lights scattered about his form are all flickering or out entirely. Steam puffs unevenly from the vents on his shoulder, unable to release properly thanks to a badly dented pauldron. His right arm dangles uselessly at his side, the panel hiding the shuriken loading mechanism knocked clean off. And yet Genji still tilts his head high in defiance, showing off the deep gash running across his visor. "If this form cannot handle the rigors of battle, then perhaps it is not worth having," Genji responds curtly.

“Really,” McCree says flatly. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell Angela the next time I see her how highly you think of her life’s work then.”

Genji flinches, his head drooping. It’s a low blow, but with only a short while to work before Blackwatch moves on to its next target in their takedown of the Shimadas, McCree doesn’t have the time or energy to combat Genji’s self-deprecation of his body. Bringing up Mercy’s disappointment will (hopefully) ensure Genji keeps himself relatively intact until they can return to her for real repairs.

(He’ll save his words for later, back at the Swiss Headquarters, when McCree can pretend he knows how to make proper Japanese green tea, and Genji can wrap his hands around the warm cup and pretend he can still drink it.)

“I apologize,” Genji says after a moment, head tilted low. The green light of his visor flickers erratically, casting strange shadows onto the dent in his chest plate. “I will try to be more careful.”

“Reckon the doc will appreciate that,”  McCree says, nodding. “Now, let’s see what we’re tanglin’ with here.”

Resigned silence settles between them as McCree sets himself to work, apprehension rolling off him in waves. He retrieved everything of Wong’s he could to help with his sure to be crude repairs, but McCree doesn’t know what half of the things in Wong’s tool kit even do, much less how to use them. At this point he’ll be thrilled if he can just get Genji’s right arm reconnected without accidentally killing him.

He hammers out the dents in the left pauldron, enough so the vents on his shoulder can release properly and keep Genji from overheating. The chest piece proves more difficult, causing McCree to swear and mutter, “Not a goddamn _tank_ ,” at least three times under his breath, shutting up only when Genji none too subtly knees McCree in the chest. McCree doesn’t bother much with rest of Genji’s armored plating; he can’t really repair the deep gashes caused by any number of technology-enhanced projectiles (“ _Ninjas_ ,” he swears), and as long as Genji retains his mobility, McCree supposes it doesn’t matter. Maybe they can serve as a reminder to take better care of himself next time.

The main concern lies in Genji’s disconnected and exposed right arm. McCree pulls up Genji’s schematics on Wong’s salvaged holo-tablet, the diagrams and charts far more complicated than anything McCree’s ever worked on before, nothing at all like engines or transmissions. He spends at least five minutes looking over the one for Genji’s forearm, running over every detail again and again, trying to ensure he won’t do accidentally make Genji’s injuries permanent through a stupid mistake. “Okay, okay, hold your horses,” he says when Genji’s fingers begin to drum impatiently against the metal of his perch. “I think I’ve got this figured out.”

“You think?” Genji replies dubiously.

“Hey, I’m trying my best,” McCree says defensively as he takes Genji’s right arm in hand. “Not my damn fault Wong didn’t head for the hills when I told him to.”

Genji sighs, but makes no further protest. McCree spends a few relaxed minutes tending to the loading mechanism, pistons and loading trays and levers more familiar to him than the complex circuitry he’ll eventually have to wrestle. He sets everything back in its rightful place and makes sure the shuriken are properly loaded before he attaches a temporary armor panel. “Now this one’s like a spare tire,” he explains to Genji once it’s snapped into place. “It’ll work, but you can’t be too rough with it, or it’ll bust. So don’t let anyone try to drive a sword halfway through your arm again, ya hear?”

Genji nods silently. Satisfied, McCree takes a deep breath before popping the latch located on Genji’s bicep. He whistles low when the panel opens, tamping down on the panic rising in his chest as he studies the tangle of wires and ports embedded within. Several things have been knocked loose, a few even severed thanks to throwing knives and shuriken that pierced through the metal. McCree inhales deeply, trying to keep his breathing calm even as he begins to swear colorfully under his breath, just like his dad did when working on a particular temperamental vehicle. He grabs a pair of needlenose pliers and begins the arduous process of repairing what he can.

McCree works in utter silence, barely daring to breathe as he sets a few things back in place, adjusts some wires, even manages to jury rig connections for the ones that were severed with some scraps from Wong’s tool kit. “Almost done,” he tells Genji after several long, repressive minutes. “Just gotta set this big fella back in place, and your arm should reconnect.” McCree takes hold of the main cable in the panel gingerly with his pliers, quadruple checks the schematic to make sure he knows exactly where it’s supposed to go, and exhales slowly, deliberately, before placing the end back in its port.

Genji yells, body jerking away from him, and McCree’s heart grinds to a halt inside his chest. “Son of a bitch!” he shouts, jumping back. “Fucking shit, Genji I’m sorry, what the hell—”

“No, it’s okay! I—I’m fine,” Genji insists, though his body shakes, something that makes the bottom of McCree stomach drop down to his knees, calling himself every kind of idiot for messing up, for not having been more careful.

“Can you move it?” he asks, trying not to wring his hands or punch himself. His lungs swell painfully, making it impossible for McCree to breathe.

Genji twists his right arm experimentally. To McCree’s utter relief, it responds, the circuitry of the still open panel blinking back to life. Genji flexes his fingers a few times, then makes a fist and flicks his wrist; shuriken appear between his fingers with only a faint scraping noise. “You seem to have repaired it well enough,” he says, and all of McCree’s breath leaves him in a huge exhale.

“Christ,” he wheezes, hand clutching the space over his heart. “You nearly gave me a heart attack there, darlin’.”

Genji’s head tilts low, hands folding in his lap in an apologetic gesture. “I did not mean to frighten you,” Genji says, voice soft. “I was not prepared for what happened.”

McCree blinks. “What d’you mean?”

“I…” Genji’s fingers drum against his leg nervously, and it takes him a few more tries to find the words. “I _felt_ it.” His voice wavers, striking a strange note between a laugh and a sob. 

“You felt it?” McCree repeats, brow furrowed. “Don’t you feel things normally?”

Genji doesn’t answer right away, head tilting to the left in a thoughtful manner. “I do,” he says after a tense pause. “But it is… diminished. Doctor Ziegler tells me most of what remains of my nervous system is badly damaged. The mechanical parts of this form compensate for that by providing sensory feedback I use to navigate through the world, but the effect is… difficult to describe.” His head shifts down and to the right, indicating a frown. “Imagine being able to touch everything around you, but you must always wear a pair of gloves. You cannot directly interact with anything. That is how I receive most sensations now.”

“Huh.” McCree’s brow furrows deeper. “That… don’t sound too pleasant.”

“… It isn’t,” Genji admits, voice low and pained. McCree fights down the urge to say something, doubting words will provide any comfort here. He stomach churns at the thought of never again being able to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, or the greasy slick of oil on his hands, or the wind whipping against his face as he rides down an empty highway. McCree never thought Genji’s frequent distress over his cyberization to be unjustified, but he sees now that there’s so much more to his condition than McCree could ever comprehend. McCree tries to offer what comfort he can, in friendship and assurances and an ear for Genji to voice his unease, but it seems inadequate in the face of Genji’s near overwhelming suffering.

“But you felt that,” he says, looking at the schematics to pull away from his thoughts, trying to figure out exactly what happened. “Like you’d been touched.”

Genji says nothing, but his silence speaks for itself. McCree doesn’t push.

McCree makes a few taps on the holo-tablet, pulling up a full body schematic next to the one of Genji’s arm, tracing the path of the main cable he reattached. Most of the notes on the diagrams are scientific gibberish to him, but McCree picks up a few mentions of how Genji’s remaining nerves connect to the cybernetic form. Most are damaged beyond repair, but some remain; central ones, embedded deep enough in his flesh that weapon and fire both couldn’t reach them. The median, musculocutaneous, and radial nerves in his arms. The saphenous, sciatic, and femoral nerves in his legs. His spinal cord. McCree traces the ways they connect with Genji’s machine parts on the schematics with a finger, large notes on each section advising extreme caution. An inexperienced handler, they warn, should not, under any circumstances, attempt to tinker with Genji’s careful construction.

McCree glances at Genji, still twisting his right arm back and forth experimentally. It’s difficult to tell without a face to read, but it seems to McCree Genji looks sadly at the exposed panel, the fingers of his left arm twitching restlessly. A latent desire to recreate the effect when McCree reattached the cable, perhaps. McCree wouldn’t blame him.

He looks back at the notes specifically detailing caution, considers for perhaps three to five seconds, then make an objectively unwise and irresponsible decision.

McCree swipes through all the schematics on the holo-tablet, noting every place where something feeds into Genji’s nervous system, the ports where Genji can be made to feel; their connections reside within the panels on the biceps of his arms, the backs of his knees, and almost every plate along his spinal column. When he has them all firmly in mind, McCree straightens, cracking his knuckles loudly. “Alright,” he drawls, aiming for casual. “Let’s get the rest of you patched up.”

He closes the panel on Genji’s right bicep. “Gonna see if I can’t fix the lights on your left shoulder,” McCree lies, shifting to grab Genji’s other arm, popping open the panel there. Genji tilts his head in a manner that belies confusion, but he says nothing when McCree pretends to look over the mess of wires, before choosing the cable that connects to the radial nerve. He tugs, pulling the cable out of its port, and Genji stiffens. “Ah, dang it,” McCree sighs dramatically. “This’d be a lot easier if you were a transmission.”

“I don’t see—” Genji begins, but cuts himself off with a sharp inhale when McCree pops the cable back into its port. McCree pauses, waiting to gauge his response, and after a few seconds, Genji relaxes. “I shall endeavour to become more like a vehicle in the future. Perhaps I can ask Angela to give me wheels,” he responds dryly, and McCree laughs.

“Wouldn’t that strike fear into your enemies,” McCree jokes, tugging on another cable. “A deadly cyborg ninja that’s also a car? You’d be unstoppable.”

Genji shudders when he slips the cable back in. “At least I’d be more like the tank you accuse me of failing to be,” he responds tartly.

“Oh come on now, that’s hurtful.” McCree wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “I’m just tryin’ to look out for you.”

Something ripples in the air, Genji’s head dipping. “I know,” he says, voice softer now, and McCree’s heart flutters traitorously.

“Hey now,” he answers, distracting himself by fiddling with another cable, experimenting with only drawing it out halfway before pushing it back in, causing an unintelligible stutter to escape Genji. “Don’t go soft on me yet. There’s still a barrel of assholes that need an ass kicking tonight.”

A sound almost like a laugh escapes Genji. “True,” he says. “Speaking of which, we should… probably hurry up here.” He sounds reluctant, something that doesn’t pass McCree unnoticed.

“Hmm. Probably.” But McCree’s not finished. He places a hand on Genji’s shoulder firmly, walking around the table to face his back. “But I’m thinkin’ I should make sure everything back here’s peachy keen too. Wouldn’t want you to fall apart in the middle of a fight.”

Nothing here really needs repairs McCree can make, but he presses his hand against the largest panel on Genji’s back anyway. Tiny tremors from Genji’s body travel through his palm, and McCree responds in kind. “Unless you think you’re good to go?” he adds, leaving the decision in Genji’s hands.

Genji tilts his head forward, dropping his chin to his chest. “It… couldn’t hurt to double check,” he says after a moment, and McCree smiles.

“I reckon it couldn’t,” he agrees, lifting up the first spinal panel. There’s more connections here than anywhere on his limbs, and McCree takes the extra minute to double check them all against the schematics before he places the pliers against one of the cables connected to Genji’s spinal column. He tugs, just until Genji jerks. A strange noise escapes him, his head tilting in a manner McCree can’t discern. But he trusts Genji to stop him if it becomes too much.

“Whoops,” McCree drawls, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “Wrong wire. Sorry ‘bout that.”

He slips the head fully back into its port, and Genji jerks again, though it’s more controlled this time. After a moment, he settles back, pushing his spine closer to McCree, an invitation to continue that makes McCree duck his head to hide his grin. Genji doesn’t jerk when he tugs on the next cable, but McCree watches his hands clench, balling into tight fists before releasing. “Beggin’ your pardon,” McCree says, touching the brim of his hat apologetically. “Darn schematics are hard to make out.”

“I’m sure,” Genji answers in a tone that tells McCree he isn’t fooled in the slightest. McCree’s grin spreads so wide his mouth starts to ache at the corners.

He says nothing after that, taking a moment or two to try and fiddle with things that might help reset the flickering lights, but McCree doesn’t bother pretending anymore he’s doing much other than trying to touch Genji the only way Genji can truly feel. But Genji doesn’t protest as McCree fiddles with the wires and cables feeding into his spine. He only shivers, hands clutching tightly at the edge of the table, the vents on his shoulder releasing rhythmic puffs, like little pants of breath as McCree works his way through every panel down Genji’s spine, hands gentle but determined as they tug and push at Genji’s circuitry.

He takes pride in the way Genji has gripped the edge of the metal table so fiercely it now sports hand-shaped grooves by the time he closes up the last panel. “Well, that just about does it,” McCree drawls, stepping around the table to face Genji’s front, entirely too pleased with himself. “Unless you got anything else you want me to try fixing?”

Genji tilts his head up, the green light of his visor still flickering badly. McCree’s grin drops, brow furrowing in concern. Fixing the visor means having to remove the faceplate, and that isn’t McCree’s decision to make. “It’s alright if you wanna leave it,” he says, voice soft, trying not to push.

After a tense pause, Genji lifts his hands to his face. “I suppose it will not help me to be more careful if I cannot clearly see the battlefield,” he concedes, and presses the latches on the sides of his head. The air around him hisses as the pneumatic seal releases, and McCree turns to the side, pointedly looking away to give Genji what privacy he can.

“Probably not,” he agrees, holding his hand out to receive the faceplate. Genji presses it against his palm, and McCree strides over to another nearby work surface, keeping his gaze carefully trained away from Genji the whole time.

He studies the faceplate, starting to hum an old country song as he does so. Despite the large gash running across its surface, he’s relieved to find the inside not damaged so much as knocked out of whack, wires loose, a few parts needing to be snapped back into place. Behind him, Genji moves, metal scraping against metal as he slides off the table. “Need to stretch your legs?” McCree asks, but Genji doesn’t answer. McCree chalks it up to difficulty speaking without aid and doesn’t press, resuming the soft hum of his song as he makes repairs to the faceplate. He’s just about finished when something touches the small of his back, the faint of whir of machinery coming from just behind him.

McCree stills. He opens his mouth to say something, throw out a quip, a sarcastic remark, a joke, anything, but for once in his life, words fail McCree.

He doesn’t dare turn around, but his gaze is drawn to the side as one of Genji’s hands covers his own, pushing it down gently. McCree follows without hesitation, letting the faceplate drop to the work surface with a dull clang. His lungs struggle and his heart pounds against his ribcage when Genji’s fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging backwards.

Slowly, without breathing, McCree turns around.

His gaze lands immediately on Genji’s exposed face, raw and red and scarred and honestly, not nearly as bad as it was the night McCree found him after his brother left Genji for dead. It’s the eyes; they’d been closed when McCree had first stumbled upon Genji’s wrecked body, then wild and terrified when he’d suddenly woken from the brink of death, soundless screams trapped within their dark depths as McCree had slammed down a biotic field and yelled for help.

Genji’s eyes are still dark, but there’s life to them now, a tiny spark that lights up the rest of his face, dampening the harshness of the burns and the scars, and faint crinkles at the corners speak to something McCree suspects Genji hasn’t experienced in far too long.

Slowly, Genji brings McCree’s hands up, guiding them to his exposed cheeks. His eyes slip shut when McCree makes contact, molding his palms to the curve of Genji’s face. The flesh feels raw and rough, but McCree finds he doesn’t mind. He breathes deeply, taking in the reality of Genji’s true visage; the sickly pallor, the grooves of cuts, the bumps of scar tissue. He brushes a thumb gently against a small nick next to Genji’s nose, and Genji inhales sharply. “Can you feel that?” McCree can’t help but ask, the answer obvious.

Genji nods, McCree’s hands moving with the motion. “ _Te ga attatakai_ ,” he says.

McCree smiles faintly. “ _No tengo ni idea de lo que acaba de decir_ ,” he responds, laughter lacing his voice. He hums thoughtfully, brushing the nick again. Genji’s inhale isn’t quite as sharp this time, but the fingers around McCree’s wrists clench momentarily, and a shiver runs up McCree’s spine in response. He repeats the motion with his other thumb, following a divot that spans half of Genji’s right cheek carefully as the pads of his fingers press ever so slightly into the tender skin. Genji begins to quiver underneath his touch, and McCree frowns, moving to pull away, but Genji’s lock around his wrists prevent him from leaving. “Genji—”

“ _Daijoubu_ ,” Genji says, voice whisper soft, and if not the words, McCree at least understands the tone. Genji’s eyes open halfway, dark and pleading, and McCree finds any protests he might have dying in his throat. His heart beats rapidly in his chest as he resumes his exploration, keeping his palms pressed against Genji’s cheeks as his thumbs and fingers work over the lines of Genji’s face, marking the grooves and scars, tracing the crooked bridge of his nose, brushing against the cracked skin of his lips. Genji continues to tremble, the shivers working their way through the whole of his body until McCree can feel them in the fingers still wrapped around his wrists. But Genji refuses to let him pull back, and McCree can’t find it in himself to argue.

It’s been almost three years. McCree won’t deny him this.

He continues until Genji’s inhales begin to grow heavier, breath slowly becoming labored without the aid of the faceplate. “Genji,” McCree murmurs once it takes on an almost pained quality, and Genji sighs, but releases his grip on McCree’s wrists. McCree reaches behind him for the faceplate, taking the time to study Genji’s face in these final moments, unsure if he’ll ever have the privilege of seeing it again. His heart nearly slams straight through his ribs as he takes in the tranquility of Genji’s half closed eyes, still faintly crinkled at the corners, and the gentle upward curve of his mouth.

McCree’s never seen Genji smile before, the sight of it making him inhale shakily as his entire being starts to burn with something McCree isn’t ready to name. Briefly McCree entertains the idea of swooping down, pressing kisses to Genji’s cheeks, maybe even his lips, a final assurance that yes, Genji can still _feel_ , but he pushes it away firmly. McCree’s an idiot, but he ain’t stupid; he won’t push his luck somewhere it has little chance of following.

He hands the faceplate over with trembling fingers, and Genji reattaches it to his visor with only minor hesitation. The strange sound hangs between them as the seal reforms, and the green light flickers briefly before settling into a dim but solid glow. “Works alright?” McCree asks, trying to ignore how hoarse his voice sounds as it claws its way out of his throat.

Genji tilts his head, rolling it around a few times and fixating briefly at a few points in the room before nodding. “It will do,” he affirms. “I will try not to get hit in the face again.”

McCree chuckles. “Bet Mercy will appreciate that.”

Genji’s visor glows brightly for a second before he tilts his head down, the vents on his shoulders releasing a long puff of air. “Thank you, McCree,” he says quietly. “This was…”  He sighs. “It has been too long.”

The sadness of Genji’s voice prickles along McCree’s skin, sending an entirely different kind of shudder running up his spine. A torrent bubbles up in McCree’s throat, a hundred different words of thanks and assurances and sentiments, as many conceivable ways as possible to tell Genji he isn’t just a machine, he’s still real, he can still feel things, he can still make people feel things, he makes McCree feel things, doesn’t he realize how much people care about him, how much McCree cares about him?

_Do you even know what you do to me?_ McCree wants to yell at Genji, to grab his face again and kiss him this time, faceplate or not, until Genji understands.

Instead, McCree just smiles, tipping his hat in a gentlemanly fashion as he struggled to keep himself in check.

“Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> anyway i blame tanya for everything.


End file.
